


The man I can not be

by HelenofTroy



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:11:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenofTroy/pseuds/HelenofTroy
Summary: December 27th , 1473.Isabel Neville finally gave birth to her little Margaret in March. Her little daughter is 9 months already. Isabel remember her birth, looking her sister holding to her new baby, Edward, her nephew.After a long delivery in which almost lost the life, finally the cries of her angel sounded in the room.But what she believed her happiness was her disappointment since her husband, George did not receive the birth with happiness at all.Devoured at the idea that his two brothers have sons, his brutality against Isabel has only begun.But in the shadows, someone has begun to woo Isabel. That thought, that of a true love wait for her is  what sustains the princess, traped in a marriage without love, without life...





	

The little Margaret wept again. Isabel looked at her silently in her little crib. The Isabel's eyes were swollen and her cheek red as wine but she hardly felt the pain. George had hit her. It was the first time he had done that. Was because their discussion, though within the family, since only Anne and Richard had been present, but really, what did it matter? This had wounded her in the depths of her soul. Isabel no longer had tears to spill, she had already cried all after the death of her father and his betrayal of her as a daughter. After the loss of that her first beloved son in the storm that the witch had sent. Her mother had abandoned her and Anne. And now her husband had accused her of being infertile, of being cursed by the witch queen. 

-Let me alone, is not my fault-had said Isabel, while Richard in middle of her and George was treating of imposing peace. 

-George, you´re drunk, please let you wife alone, is a day special, i have had a son, please share this happiness with us, all us are your family, brother-said George, generously, touching his brother´s shoulder, but was useless. 

The George's screams rang in the living room, and they made cry to the newborn. 

-You´re barren, you´re a whore. Damn you, I curse the day I accepted you as wife, the day I said yes to your father. Damned! Only a fool would have thought a woman as stretched as you would be a good mother. Only a fool like me would not have seen you a damn sickly viper incapable of having sons, like your mother!  
Do you know why I drink? Because I can not stand seeing you, I can not bear to touch you knowing that you will give me more dead children, or worst, girls... Because you do not have a belly, but a grave inside. Even now my brother Richard has an heir, but what do I have? A damn girl. I will not share my bed with you ever, I will not let you embarrass me again.

George had pointed her out with his wineglass, staggering. The dagger had fallen to the ground.  
As he bent over it, he fell pathetically on the cold tile. And when he wanted to stand, Isabel slapped him with anger. He would no longer embarrass her in front of her sister, her brother-in-law.  
She was not sterile. All had been by her father´s fault. By the Witch´s fault. 

George stood up, smiling. That half smile of him.   
He looked like the devil himself. His perfect hair, a little disheveled. He did not look drunk at all in appearance. His face was serene, as usual.  
It was his words, his continual swinging. His bitterness was the one who spoke.  
-Oh so you want a fight. It's good to know you have blood in your veins, Isabel-he said, stumbling on every word he said. He was so drunk that he did not know what he was doing. It was obvious. But his hand did know for sure where Isabel's face was, and trembling faced him.

.   
George slapped her. Her black taffeta gown filled with tears after her humiliation. The slap was so strong, that all them kept silence like the same George.   
They all did.  
Staggering to the door George left, and Richard behind.  
-I will talk with him

Isabel did not react. She could only hear Anne's voice in the distance:  
-Sister, sister, please say something.  
-I'm fine, Anne. Is the longest story of my life. This is my marriage, what Father wanted for me. The best York brother-said Isabel approaching to the cradle of her daughter, in silence, to hide her tears. She, the most proud of the Neville, of "the stretched turkeys Neville" as Queen Elizabeth used to call them, was there, broken because her husband. 

 

Isabel had come to see his new nephew, Edward, born that same year too. His sister Anna was holding the little boy York in silence. It was the wine portrait of his father Richard: his black hair, his dark eyes closed, little but strong. 

-He could to be my son too-said Isabel, holding her baby daughter in silence. 

-I think Margaret is used to hear his father´s screams because she did not cry while my son did-said Anne, smiling.   
Anne looked gaunt. She was exhausted from giving birth. Her eyes were gray, as if she was not happy either.  
But her blond hair framed her face with a bright aura, almost light.

In addition to her tender smile, Isabel knew that Anne was loved. That she had always been for Richard. Not like her. There was no one so unhappy as she.

-Has he been drinking like this for a long time?-Anne kissed her son on the forehead.  
-Since my daughter was born. He even joked that he would like to die drowned in wine- Isabel raised an eyebrow, but continued holding her baby.

Margaret pressed her round nose. It was the hour of her dream. Isabel left her in her crib with care. Then he went to Anne's bed.

-And that blue necklace? Are they diamonds? -Anne asked in the tone they used as teenagers.

-Oh, that's another story even better. I have to tell you something -Isabel said quickly. The joy came to her again, that misterious & high tone of her voice, when she was a teen.  
Isabel was particularly beautiful today. The black background of her dress was like night, while in her bust, the beautiful rose butterflies of her like pattern at sunset were covered by the opulent necklace of blue stones.

Isabel rose with ceremony, serious, as if she were standing before the queen of witches, Isabel Woodville and made a cold inclination.

-That's true-Anne said carefully. She was anxious to get out of bed. It was like when they were girls-it's a splendid necklace, let me touch it.  
Isabel took it away, smiling with difficulty.

-The royal jeweler looked at it and said it was a real blue diamond necklace- said Isabel-a stranger sent it to me. Every Friday he send an anonymous gift with a love letter, it tells me the sweetest things I've ever heard.

-And you are keeping with you one of them, aren´t you? -Anne said, winking.  
They were already playing, it was the old trick. The game of cat and mouse.

Isabel becoming narrow, while Anne stole the information and pretended to be surprised, but this time it was not pretense, it was real: they were happy and anxious at the same time. As if George's bad incident meant nothing to them, to both.

-Of course i´m not. I´m a princess. What if a kind of dirty servant would have written this letter for me? Ah no, i never would carry one of those things with me, My dignity-said Isabel serious. 

Anne looked at her smiling, with her baby sucking her finger, so beautiful he was. 

-Yes, of course i have brought this with me, is the only thing that holds me in moments like that.   
-Read it, read it-said Anne, without can breath almost 

Isabel sat down on the bed beside her, and drew the letter from her cleavage. She had it folded, with a yellow flower attached to it. Isabel kissed the flower brazenly and opened the letter slowly. And she started: 

\- "Dear Madam, let me call you my lady, for that is that your grace is for me, a madman full of frustrated hopes and this love that I can not confess with words for you, but certainly I feel.

Please do not try to find the sender nor question the servants who sent you this letter and this gift, for you will know that I will send many more according to the secret love I feel for you.

Well, I'll never go myself to deliver the letter, but I'll send it to third parties.  
My love for you is a secret and always will be. I can only tell you that we have already seen each other more than once. But you have never seen who I am.

We cross almost every day through the same corridors of this Court, but it is as if my invisibility with you were my best armor.

The truth of my love for you began before you married your husband.  
That husband who shouts at you now, and has always shouted at you.  
That abject heir to the throne who, without being alone, has separated you from your happiness, and has caught you in a horrible and loveless marriage.

Please do not hate me for calling her a thief. But for my George, Duke of Clarence, he's a love thief. Because you have always been made for me.

When I heard you speak the first time I knew. You criticized Queen Elizabeth, you said that her mother and she had the most vulgar forms on the table you had ever seen. That they both looked like the daughters of a bartender, not the Queen of England, much less her mother. That was what I loved most of you, and even what I love most now.  
That force that is born from your inside , that energy of struggle under your porcelain appearance.  
If you only knew how many times I have drawn you in my notebook at night ...alone, when my wife sleeps, in my library, while i order to one of my minstrels to play the "Isabel's song.  
Because i have wrote a song that remembers to you...all my poems to you are named in the only name "Isabel" because you have been consecrated to me since before your birth. I only see your china face by everywhere, your brown hair, your sad eyes. In your face, i´m thirsty of you, of all those kisses full of a passion endless that you never will ask me. I would want kiss your body, your legs, your hands like if you would be a Virgin in the highest altar, Isabel. 

When I close my eyes I just have to think of you to put your face on the paper, tear to tear. I dream of your face when I am far from you, and at night in the depths of my being I still possess you. I kiss those lips of yours that are mine in my dream, I kiss your red cheeks, they look pink under that alabaster skin you have.  
You are everything I ever wanted to have. That mixture of malice and selfish strength, along with that kindness and obedience with which you follow your family. That is why I love you. Because you are like me.  
Unfortunately, no one can ever know me as I am, for the whole world would burn, my dear. You are my angel, while i´d be your devil, a demon yet worst than your husband, my lovely Neville flower, my little Bird Neville. 

I saw you yesterday with your baby girl.  
She´s beautiful, she´s lucky, because she is like you, not like him.   
 I would like to be free from this strength of ambition that holds me back, from this social position that does not let me have you as I would like.  
But I wish God would take away my fortune, my name, and let my heart speak to me instead of my head. I would chafe and ride you on my horse and take you to Rome, where the minstrels sing to the love of Catullus, to the love of that ancient Rome.  
I would make love to you under a rosebush,in a lost field only for us, your body under my body, my nose in your hair, as in Arcadia, and I would kiss you, filling your lips with honey, with the purest honey.  
Because I want you, Isabel, I love you with all my soul.  
You will never know me, but at the end I have said it. I needed to do it.  
I hope that you forgive me. And do not give back my gifts, give me hope. These diamonds are proof of my unshakable devotion. I have not slept with another woman since I met you.  
I tried, but I could never be unfaithful, even if you do not believe it. I never will admit my love for you because would be a scandal for my family, for you too. And i would preffer to die that expose to you to the people in this Court.   
Your lover forever,  
                The man I can not be. "

Isabel lay down on the bed, hugging the letter to her chest. He felt as if he were making love to her, no doubt about it. -The Man i can not be-Isabel said again....closing her eyes absolutelly in love. 

-Oh my God-said Anne-that man loves you desperately, Isabel. What words ... Richard has never spoken to me like this before. And George?

-Oh come on, Anne-said Isabel, kissing the letter softly & hitting with it on the Anne´s knee slowly -do not mention the devil now. What do you think? 

-Of the letter? I do not know how the ink does not come off talking about such things ... there is so much passion, and despair in that letter, sister.

-This man is desperate like I was then, Annie. Feel a love like the one I feel, unrequited. He must be a man of fortune, married, he tells himself-Isabel said, biting her lip-Is not it romantic?

-I wish he was your lover, sister. At least that would make you happy-said Anne, taking the Isabel´s hand. 

-I feel that i love him, i love to that man who has wrote that letter to me, Annie. I love him by the strength of his heart, by his unrecognized passion, by that love he has to hide to appear to have a cold and distant attitude towards me, so that no one suspects. I love him because he looks at the honor and respectability of his wife, because I would never expose myself to shame as George does. I love him because he respects me, because he makes me want it, because I burn with his words. I did not know what the passion is before of this-said Isabel touching her leg, raising her dress, while timidly smiling-I imagine him inside me, Annie, he gives me life, gives me light. Every Friday I'm at twelve o'clock waiting for my package, in my rooms. I do not go to Mass for waiting for his letters, even more than his gifts. Sometimes I think that even if he did not send the gifts, I would only be happy with his words, his support, his love. 

The hand of Isabel bit a bit touched her thighs, her belly, above the dress now-what is love, Annie? What is it to really make love?  
-Love is what you feel for that admirer of yours, sister- Anne said-and make love is what you're imagining. It is to let him live inside you, while he make you die slowly, being prisioner of his body, while you feel that don´t want to be rescued, but burned in that forbidden fire that he´s offering to your bowels. 

-Annie!-screamed Isabel-what things must make to you Richard!!!! -And they both laughed loudly.

-Oh well Richard always ...

-Always let you begging??? -the eyebrowns of Isabel make the rest. the Neville sister couldn´t continue talking of such shame and such happiness. 

What they did not see was like George on the other side of the door, crying but now smiling slightly, in a strange mixture of pleasure and melancholy, while at his feet many sheets with Isabel's face fell, painted by himself, dreaming of a Life that could not live, but that would want offer, without being able to do it.

Everything about him was contradictory. But he loved those laughter of Isabel, God as he loved them. He scraped the wall little by little, looking for more than the cold wood, and suddenly an even stronger cry came over him as he fell to the floor, whispering like a child.

-I love you too , I love you too , Isabel.


End file.
